With Love, SH
by The Derpite
Summary: Set between first and second seasons spanning through the end of the second season. Only universe alteration is that 221C is upstairs, not down; features OC Addison Lane who finds herself caught up in the Baker Street Boys' business when she moves into the flat above them. Includes Sherlock x OC; no slash. Not sure if I should keep posting or keep it to myself... Thank *bows*
1. Chapter 1

I had always considered myself smart, but this man was nuts. It hadn't been a week since I had moved in and a tall, dark haired man had barged into my flat, looking for something.

"Can I help you, sir?" I said through the crack I had opened in my door. I reached around where he couldn't see and dug through the table by the door to grab out my hardly used Mace can. I had just quit my job and had spent all day looking for a new one. I wasn't in the mood for visitors.

"Yes, you can let me in."

"And why would I do that?"

"Isn't it obvious?" he said and I crinkled my eyebrows.

I heard a whisper and opened the door a crack more to see another man whispering in the ear of the first. This man was a bit shorter than the dark haired one and had blonde hair as well. I recognized him almost immediately. In fact, I had just been reading the paper… and he was on the front page.

"I'm sorry ma'am. I'm here to inspect your new flat," the first said and gave me a facetious smile.

I paused for a moment, slightly unsure of what to do, but having a sort of gut feeling as to what I should do. "Of course," I said and opened the door. I held the Mace behind my back so as to keep it from their sight. They entered the room and John smiled regretfully. The other man made himself at home and wandered about my living room.

"I'm so sorry about him," he said. "Not used to common folk."

"Right," I said and grinned more or less.

"I suspect we won't be here long," he said and shook my hand. "John Watson."

"Of course. Addison-"

"Addison Lane, formerly of Dartmoor. Single, no children, no pets, although she'd like to have one. No current relationship and from the state of her shoes, no living relatives either." Where was he getting this from?

John pursed his lips and rolled his eyes in the other man's general direction.

"Thank you for understanding Addison," he said and followed him into the room. I closed the door slowly and turned over the thoughts in my head. John Watson was in my flat. I was no fool. This could only mean there was a case to be solved here and I wasn't sure that's what I wanted in my brand new flat.

"Erm, would you like to sit down?" I asked, trying to be hospitable.

"Yes, sure," said John. I offered him a seat on the couch and he sat gratefully. The tall one ignored the question altogether.

"Can I get you something to drink?" I asked him.

"Oh, no, it won't be long I'm sure." I nodded and stepped behind the couch, next to the wall, not knowing where I could set down the can of Mace without it looking out of place. I watched the man turn over several of the things on my desk and open my laptop. I decided it was best I kept the spray near me.

I watched him for a bit before he stood up straight and circled around himself. He sniffed at the air once. He looked at the table near the door then sniffed several more times. He approached me slowly and continued sniffing. Finally, his gaze landed on me when he was about two yards away.

"Were you actually planning on spraying us with Mace?" he asked and yanked my arm from behind my back. John sighed slowly and the man took note then softened his grip on my arm. The can of Mace was displayed in my hand. "How long have you had this?" he asked.

"I found it here," I said, remembering how I had found it.

I had been coming home from work three days prior. I had stopped at the market for a short time before returning home and I had a hard time opening the door. I don't know why I remembered that, but it seemed like it wasn't just that I was carrying groceries, it was that my key wasn't working very well. I had been unnerved by it and it had stuck with me for the rest of the week, not to mention the clatters I seemed to hear in my flat that almost scared me out of going in.

When I had finally gotten the door open, I put the groceries on the counter and spotted the can on the table. I thought it strange, but the landlady had said something about frequent visitors. I thought maybe it had been left there by her.

"When?"

"Wednesday. I assumed Mrs. Hudson left it for me," I said, counting back the days in my head.

He stopped for a moment before he began to laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"John told me not everybody around here was dull-witted, but he was wrong."

"Are you saying I'm dull-witted?" I asked, becoming offended immediately. I realized that I had said something that was wrong and immediately suspected it was the part about Mrs. Hudson. I knew I had said everything else correctly.

I looked at John's face and he seemed to be both appalled and confused at Sherlock's behavior. I glanced at my doorjamb and got most of the information I needed. Then of course was the fact that Mrs. Hudson wouldn't come into my apartment without me knowing to drop off a can of Mace; that seemed a little counterintuitive. I looked at John again quickly, but he was an ordinary man; he wouldn't have put it there.

"It may have been implied-"

"Before you insult me again, I suggest you take your can of Mace and leave," I said. "Even though it obviously wouldn't help you at all if there were someone wanting to break into your flat," I took the can back roughly and shook it, "because it's not even Mace, is it?" I squeezed shaving cream into my hand, wondering what in the world could have made him want to put shaving cream into the can. True enough, I had no idea what his motive could be, but at least I had figured out what was really going on when I put my mind to it.

The man looked at me fiercely and I squinted back, noticing that he actually had some scruff around his chin. "Is that why you came back then?" I asked. "Because sometime while you were investigating my flat earlier this week, you left your shaving cream," my words didn't even make sense to me at that time, "and now you're coming to get it back? Perhaps there's more to this story?" I said out loud, although I was really just thinking. I looked at the can and found a couple of tabs down at the bottom. I pressed them and the bottom popped off to reveal my migraine prescription. "Are you serious?" I asked, several things now clicking into place. "You broke into my flat to get my migraine prescription and when I got home early, you forgot your Mace disguised shaving cream with secret compartment on my kitchen table? Why's it disguised I wonder?" I glanced at John's own unshaven face. "Perhaps because John keeps using yours when he runs out and you wanted it to stop, so you turned your already modified shaving cream can into a Mace can? Am I getting warm?" I asked, my rage working me up and getting the wheels in my brain to turn faster.

The man clenched his jaw tight and grabbed the can back from me. "Incredibly," he said angrily and turned immediately to John who was looking at me in awe.

"Off your pop," he said.

John stood up and the other walked to the door and opened it quickly. John walked to his side.

"What did I miss?" I asked, having fun with the turned tables at the moment.

The man paused at the door. "I wasn't investigating your flat. This was a test and that's _my_ prescription," he said.

"Did I pass?" I asked, still maintaining power in the situation.

He eyed me for a moment, looking me up and down in a way that I normally would have felt very uncomfortable with. My sudden surge of intelligence however was causing me a bit of overconfidence. I was still inclined to feel a bit self-conscious though.

"B," he said.

"Well, that's not bad," I said.

"But it's not an A either," he remarked. The man held the door open for John who thanked him as he walked past. "Welcome to Baker Street, Addison," he said.

"Thank you, Mister…" I trailed off, trying to trick myself more than him. Was he really in my flat?

"Oh please," he said, rolling his eyes, "call me Sherlock. And get this lock changed, someone tried to break in on Tuesday," he said.

"Was that you too?" I asked. Even though he was closing the door, I saw him grin mischievously and disappear entirely from the doorframe, pulling the door closed behind him.

The most obvious question popped into my head. _Why were they interested in me?_ But I could have slapped myself from ignorance. It was only a matter of time before they came. I had, after all, moved into 221C Baker Street.

Sherlock Holmes was my downstairs neighbor.


	2. Chapter 2

Several weeks later I had landed myself a good job in the Speedy's Café where the landlady, Mrs. Hudson, frequented. Unfortunately, it being a café, my hours were from four in the morning to five in the evenings. Of course, this wasn't actually a problem; those were the hours I had signed up for because I had nothing better to do.

This particular morning was my first on the job. I woke up considerably early and grabbed my smock from the hook behind my door immediately. I got dressed in the usual manner, except for slightly accelerated because of excitement and nervousness. I began to eat breakfast when I realized I had skipped a shower. I abandoned my bowl of corn flakes and undressed. I took a quick shower, then redressed and came back to the kitchen. My cereal was now soggy and I threw it out. I was too nervous to eat regardless. I stood in the center of the kitchen for a moment, listening to the silence.

It didn't take long to get to Speedy's, so I figured I could probably leave around 3:45 and get there with time to spare. I glanced at the clock to see it read 3:30. _Well, the early bird gets the worm_, I thought and donned my coat and hat. It was already raining outside.

I left the flat and locked the door on the way out. The lock was being funny again, but I just had it replaced. I wanted to think more of it, but there was a great clamor from the stairs below me and I jumped. I turned around and made my way slowly down the stairs, keeping my keys in hand.

"Hello?" I whispered. I climbed down the rest of the stairs and saw a tall dark shadow of a man in front of me, approaching from the next set of stairs.

"Sir, are you alright?" I asked, my eyes darting to the window and then to the door to 221B. The man continued toward me. "Sir," I repeated. "Can I help you?"

The man didn't say anything. I could barely see his face because of the darkness in the stairwell, but that didn't prevent me from seeing his arm raise. There seemed to be something in his hand. I squinted to see what it was, but no sooner than I had, I knew exactly what was going on.

The man's hand came forward quickly and I ducked, and then scrambled to the door of 221B, it being the closest point of safety. I pounded on it for a moment then looked behind me to see the large man darting toward me.

"Help!" I yelled, but there was no response.

I didn't hesitate to try the knob, even though I knew better than to expect it to be unlocked… but then, it was.

I toppled through the door, wondering why I had decided to come in here. All I was doing was putting more people in danger. I stood up and the man came toward me again. I tripped backwards over the rug and fell on my back. The man sped up, taking my fall to his advantage and I closed my eyes, letting out a loud cry.

"Sherlock!" I screamed and cowered against the couch. I covered my head with my arm and closed my eyes. This was it. In a matter of moments everything would be gone. I would just be another crime scene for Sherlock to solve and what better placement than his own flat.

I heard a soft grunt and the scrambling of feet. There was a gasp and then a sort of choked sound, but I didn't look up. There was a heavy thud but I stayed where I was, confused that I wasn't dead or at least wrestling with the man. I opened my eyes slowly and peeked out from my arm.

The large man was now at my feet, not conscious on any level. By instinct, I crawled away from him and grabbed onto a chair. I tried to look around but I couldn't take my eyes off the attacker. How had he…? He had just been about to-

"Addison?" a hand shook my shoulder and there was a man at my side. I skittered back, knocking over the chair and keeping my feet aimed at this new person. It was so dark though that I couldn't tell if he was friend or foe.

"Addison, it's okay, you're safe now," I heard the voice, but my eyes were still adjusting. I couldn't see who it was, although the voice was familiar.

A lamp flicked on to my right and I struggled against the light, blinking tears out of my eyes. I looked to see Sherlock standing next to the lamp, withdrawing his hand from the switch.

"Sherlock," I sighed. I didn't talk to him very often, but he seemed to have accepted that I was his neighbor finally after a few days. I felt weird being here. He was often mobbed by people needing help, but I had never been one of them.

"Are you okay?" he said in an attempt to show some sympathy.

"I… erm," I didn't know what to say. I tried to stand up and had to grip the back of the couch to lift myself up and then steady myself. My legs felt like jell-o and my arms were shaking. I tried to walk over to him, but had to catch myself on the desk to not fall over. Sherlock came to my side immediately and took my arm.

"Here," he said, "you're in shock. Sit down," he ordered and made me sit down on the couch. He threw a blanket over me and went to examine the man.

I tried to distract myself from having just been attacked in a place that I thought was safe from intruders; my own home. It didn't take me long to find something to think about.

I and noticed Sherlock's attire first. He was wearing a purple button up shirt (too tight) and slacks. His scarf hung limp around his neck and it looked like he had been getting ready to leave his own self.

He bent down to the man and checked his breathing.

"Do you know who he is?" I asked shakily, sure that Sherlock had come up with some pretty good deductions by now.

"Yes," he said and stood up. He looked at me, obviously not picking up the queue to tell me who he was exactly.

"Alright then… do you reckon we should phone the police?"

Sherlock smirked at me then nodded, looking back down at the man.

"Yes, by all means, call the police," he said sarcastically and rolled his eyes.

I didn't have much contact with this man, but he was every bit as cocky as John always told me he was. Who did he think he was exactly? His comment rolled off of my back in a moment however as I was, as he had stated, in shock.

I got out my mobile and phoned the police with trembling hands. They were probably used to coming here and finding some sort of body on the ground.

"You best be off to work," he said. "If Lestrade needs you, he'll find you."

I tried to find words to say, but my mouth was empty. I didn't have any smart remarks or anything to say to him. I didn't know what to say; I was still trying to get over the surprise I had just been greeted with.

"Or, I'm sorry," he said mockingly, "I forgot, you were just attacked by a stranger weren't you. Well, perhaps you should take the day off if it's too much stress; I mean, it's what I do for a living but not everyone can handle it, can they?" he said.

Just then, before I could even compute the disrespect that had just been uttered, John came staggering out of his room, rubbing his eyes. "What on earth are you doing, Sherlock?" he hissed and saw first the man on the floor, then me on the couch and looked confusedly at Sherlock. "What have you done?" he asked.

"John, I was just saving our neighbor from this very poor excuse of a robber," he said. "She's just leaving," he said and looked, irritated, at me.

"What are you talking about?" he asked and looked more closely at me. "Are you okay? What's happened?"

I had a choice to make just then, but I didn't think I could survive another minute in that room with Sherlock and found my best option would be to go with what he had said. "Sherlock's right, he was only helping me. Found this bloke trying to get into my flat, but it's all fixed now." I stood up, shedding the blanket and trying to hide my quaking legs. "I'll just be going; got to get to work," I said and wandered toward the door which Sherlock was now standing beside, opening. He gave me a smug look that told me I was more than inferior to him. I was lost for all sharp ripostes and instead said the next best thing to wipe that smug look off his face.

"Thank you," I said as I swept by him quickly. I knew he actually did deserve more than that, but at this point, I was afraid if I said anything else it would be horribly rude. I put my foot out the door.

A hand wound around my arm and held me back.

"Wait," Sherlock whispered and pulled me back into the room. I tensed up. Were there more people here? Did he hear them? Did he smell them?

"What?" I snapped, looking into the hallway.

"I, erm…" he said at normal volume and I looked back at him, "just wanted to say good luck at work today. I know it's your first day on the job, so, I thought I might as well."

I looked at him confused and annoyed. "Well, thanks," I said and glanced at his hand, still clutched around my arm. Sherlock was the most socially awkward and frustrating person I had ever met: that and the cleverest.

I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and saw his other hand reaching into my bag. I turned and looked at it full on. His hand froze. I looked up at him. My first assumption was that he had been trying to take something from me, but after a few moments I realized he was either giving me something, or returning something he had taken beforehand.

I pulled my bag away roughly and stared him down. He bit his bottom lip and opened and closed his mouth as if trying to come up with an answer.

"You clot head," I said. "U," I sputtered and he knew I was referring to the grade.

He looked at me astonished. Had he never been caught in the act before? Or had he just never gotten a U before? I was surprised at how stuck up he must be to think he was undefeatable. I stepped out of his grip and out the door again.

"Actually," he said and I cringed, "I think you could use a little brushing up your self." I whipped around to see him holding up his mobile. I pursed my lips.

Not moments earlier, when he was busy with checking the man's living status, I had spotted his phone on the desk and against my better judgment slipped it into my purse.

"But good try. I applaud you for your efforts," he said and tucked the phone into his pocket. "Have a good day," he said, slightly amused. I spun on the spot and walked out the door before he could stop me again.

"Wait, Addison!" John called, but I didn't stop. I hurried down the stairs and out the front door of the building. I was far past any shock that I had been in. Now I was just angry.

As soon as I was out of eyesight, I opened up my bag to see that what I had really been interested in was still there: his checkbook. I had grabbed it with the phone. He thought he was so clever, but even the greatest of detectives slipped up here and there. I tucked it down into the bottom where it would be safe. I would have to look at it later.

I hunkered down against the rain and unlocked the door to Speedy's. There was no one there yet (not even the manager), which was surprising. I could already see people on the streets despite the early hour. I set my bag down in the back where I had been instructed to and then waited behind the counter. I wasn't allowed in the cash register yet so I started up the machines. After a few minutes, the other employees showed up and I was put to work.

I was sure my first day would be a quick one, but every time I thought about looking at that checkbook, it made the minutes go by ten times slower, not to mention my jumping at every touch or noise I came in contact with. At around noon, John wandered in the front door.

"Hello John," I said, wiping off the bar. Not many people came to Speedy's for lunch although there were a lot in the morning crowd. John was the only one at the moment. He took a seat at the bar in front of me.

"What can I get for you?" I asked.

"Just coffee," he said. "Black, one sugar," he said. I looked him over for a moment.

"Are you sure? You look a little peaky," I said. He glanced up at me and I wondered if I had crossed the line.

He gave a low sigh, "you're probably right. I'll have the special, too," he said. I decided to push a bit farther. If I had ever seen John like this, it had something to do with Sherlock and at the moment, he was high on my 'people to find out about' list.

"Is it something Sherlock's done?" I asked as I wrote down his order on a receipt and put it in the window. There was a pause and I turned around to get his coffee.

"Yes, of course it's something he's done," he muttered. "Only everything."

"Do you want to talk about it?" I asked softly.

"No, not really," he sighed and paused. Of course he was going to talk about it, what else did people talk to waitresses at cafés about? "It's just… oh, I don't know," he trailed off.

I poured black coffee into his mug and turned around. I grabbed a sugar cube out of the sugar bowl, hesitated, and then stopped. He watched me and we made eye contact.

"How did you know?" he asked and I knew he was referring to the sugar, not Sherlock.

"Lucky guess," I said, even though it was much more than that. It was simple really. We always happened to go to the store on the same day and he bought sugar only every fourth time he was there. Since Sherlock rarely drank coffee at home (I knew that from the single package of coffee grinds John bought every third visit), I could safely assume that John liked black coffee. It was pathetic really. Those were the types of things I mused about before I went to sleep at night and I had figured out that seemingly useless information a week before.

I knew John didn't believe me, but I didn't care. "You don't have to punish me for Sherlock's behavior this morning," I said and slid the cup toward him.

John looked stunned that I had so easily figured out why he had ordered a sugar cube, despite not taking sugar in his coffee.

"I minored in psychology at University," I said. John seemed to understand a little more before he remembered our topic.

"He's just so… so…" John cursed, "stubborn! And he's the stupidest smart person I've ever met!" he set his mug down a bit harder than he intended. "Sorry," he muttered. I thought maybe he was done, but he continued quietly. "It's just the little things. Leaving the door unlocked, he doesn't eat, he hardly ever leaves the flat, and he's constantly telling me to be quiet so he can make noises of his own… Addison, I just don't know. I don't think I'll be able to handle him for much longer, but I don't think he would survive without me either."

I chuckled. "Someone like Sherlock? No, he definitely wouldn't survive without you," I said. "And then _I_ would have to take care of him," I joked.

He smiled a bit, but then his face dropped. "And then there's Moriarty." I had heard that name before. I stopped what I was doing and tried to remember where I knew it from but figured I had just heard it in some newspaper or on some morning show.

"Who's that?" I asked, pretending to be ignorant.

John spent the next twenty minutes telling me about the mysterious Jim Moriarty. I had indeed heard about the man on the news and how Sherlock and John had foiled his attempts at murder but that he was still at large. This part of the conversation seemed to pique my interest more than any other part. There was something about this Moriarty guy that made me shiver. The conversation came to an end just in time for John's food to be ready.

"Alright, I'd better leave you alone now," I said as I set his plate down.

He smiled. "Thanks Addison, I really needed that," he said and I smiled back.

"Any time," I said and I meant it. The more he complained about Sherlock, the more I found out about him.

John left the café within the next half hour and from there I was home free. He had given me plenty of things to think about for the rest of my shift and that wasn't the last time I saw him at Speedy's.

We had at most ten more customers that day before we were sent home.

I practically skipped back to 221 and took the stairs three at a time to get to flat C. I yanked open the door and then closed it quickly behind me. I ran to my bedroom and dug through my bag until I got to the bottom of it where I had hidden the checkbook. I sat down on the edge of my bed and flipped to the front page. I read through the reminder column.

_John, John, John, John, John, Mrs. Hudson, John, John_… I stopped. If it wasn't labeled to Mrs. Hudson, it was labeled to John. So Sherlock _was_ clever.

There was a creak in the floor outside my bedroom door. I had heard many of these since I had moved in, but this one had reason to scare me. I looked up from the checkbook, thinking quickly.

There was another creak.

_I didn't unlock the door when I got back._

I dove behind the bed, hoping it would do me any good. Whoever it was already knew I was home, they would have been watching. I almost face-palmed myself. Why hadn't I noticed the door as soon as I turned the knob?

The wheels in my head turned quickly. Why would someone leave the door unlocked? Either they were stupid or they were testing me. Seeing as police had been here earlier today and no one was stupid enough to break into a place that had just been searched, I supposed it was a test. That left either John or Sherlock.

Sherlock.

I quickly took the back off of one of my earrings and let the small gem fall to the floor. I tucked it under my leg.

There weren't any more creaks, but I felt him in the room with me. I peered under the bed and saw him cross the halfway point in the bed. I slid the checkbook quietly to the other side of the bed.

"Dang it," I whispered to myself. "This always happens to me," I said.

I waited. There was no way Sherlock could pass up this opportunity to speak.

"Talking to yourself?" I jumped and sat up on my knees, flipping my hair out of my face as I did so.

"Sherlock," I gasped, "you scared me!" I paused, trying to make it believable. "I just dropped my earring and don't know where it went," I said and bent over the floor once again. I searched for a moment and could feel Sherlock studying the room and myself.

"Are you going to help me?" I asked.

"No," he replied shortly. I sighed.

"Well, if you're not going to help me, at least tell my why you felt it necessary to pick my lock to get in."

"You have something of mine," he said and crouched down next to me. I looked up at him, brushing the hair out of my face. "And I don't want to be here all day looking for it."

"I thought you got your phone back this morning," I said coolly and continued searching. I could feel his glare on the back of my neck, but I ignored it. I needed to come up with a plan of action. He wasn't going to fall for this much longer and he knew that I had his checkbook.

"You're right, I did, didn't I?" he said and stood up. "Sorry to waste your time. I'll be leaving now."

I scoffed. "Thanks for the help," I said as he walked out the door.

"It's under you leg, by the way," he called from the living room. I heard the front door close. I scowled. He was so good.

I waited until I heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps going down my staircase before crawling to the other side of the bed and slipping the checkbook out. I had no further use for it. I stood up.

I couldn't very well stick it in his mailbox or under his door. He would know it was me. I settled on turning it in to Lestrade and having him give it back to Mr. Holmes himself. I knew it needed to be done sooner than later or Sherlock would surely continue pestering me.

I stuffed it in my purse again and headed back down the stairs, making sure to lock the door behind me. I bumped into John on the second flight. He had probably been out to get away from Sherlock for a while.

"Evening Addison," he said.

"Good evening John," I replied. He unlocked his door and just as he was about to open it, I touched his shoulder.

"John, I found Sherlock in my apartment earlier… said he had lost something of his. Would you mind helping him find it?" I asked.

"You found him…?" he sighed, obviously being able to picture the awkward situation that Sherlock had gotten himself into.

"I'll make sure it doesn't happen again," he said.

"I'm sorry to bother you with it," I said. I was sorry that all of Sherlock's responsibilities rested on John's shoulders, but then again, this would gain me more stall time.

"No, no, I shouldn't have left him alone," he said and I laughed.


	3. Chapter 3

there were some bad horrible grammar mistakes and stuff in the last chapter that i screamed at myself about and then didn't fix so if you found them then feel free to scream but know that they have been screamed at already

anywho

i'm sorry if the same is true for this chapter

but i think

maybe

it

is

okay

but i don't wanna jinx it

anywho

here ya're

that was the contraction for "ya are"

anywho

thank

*bows*

The next day, Lestrade dropped by to give Sherlock his recovered checkbook and his animosity toward me lessened, although I was sure he didn't completely write me off as a suspect.

The next few weeks flew by without much incident except for the occasional shooting near our building or in it.

Then there was me getting fired. It wasn't a big deal, I didn't get that great of pay from Speedy's anyway, but I had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with Sherlock. I had a feeling John had somehow spilled the beans that he talked to me when he came in the café and that I knew a heck of a lot more about Sherlock than he wanted me to. From that point on, I saw John less and less and Sherlock more and more. At times I was almost positive he was following me around, but I didn't flatter myself that far. I knew just as well as John did that Sherlock was very bad with people and wouldn't take care to make sure he wasn't following someone around.

On the third month of my residence on Baker Street, John decided to take a holiday.

"You mean, you're leaving me and Mrs. Hudson alone with him for two weeks? Are you sure we'll survive?" I asked sarcastically.

John chuckled and shook his head. "I've got him a few good cases. Hopefully it will take up the time that I'm gone and you won't have to worry about him a bit," he said.

"Well that was very thoughtful of you," I said. "Thank you John."

"Thank you, Addison. See you in two weeks," he said and with that he was off. I sighed. I could only hope that Sherlock stayed occupied. I hadn't been here long enough to experience a dry spell of his, but John had told me enough about them that I didn't ever want to be in one.

The first two days were fine and Sherlock was as busy as ever, but on the third day, I noticed that he stayed in his flat. The fourth day was the same, except there was a considerable amount of banging around on this day. The fifth day came around and I was genuinely worried by nightfall. He hadn't left the flat in three days and I hadn't heard a peep from him all day.

I decided, after much deliberation, that the best thing to do was ask Mrs. Hudson if she knew anything.

"Mrs. Hudson, did you notice that Sherlock has been rather quiet lately?"

"Well," she said thoughtfully, "a little bit, but, I'm just the landlady. Don't ask, don't tell, right?" she said and chuckled.

"Of course. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I smiled and walked back up the stairs. At the top of the first flight, I paused and looked at the door to 221B. I stood there for several minutes, trying to decide whether or not I should knock. Sherlock and I weren't on the best of terms, but I considered them better than the terms I was on with most other people I knew.

I bit my lip and after a moment decided it was only right. I walked up to the door hesitantly and knocked three times. No answer. I knocked another three times; still no answer.

"Sherlock?" I called softly. There was no answer. I began to worry. I knew Sherlock could be stubborn sometimes, but he wasn't one to not answer the door, if only to see if he was right about who was at it.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" I put my hand on the knob and turned. It was unlocked. "Sherlock?" I said as I opened the door.

There was no response. At this point, I was almost positive something was wrong. Sherlock usually left the door unlocked, but not when John was away.

"Sherlock, where are you?" I called. I opened the door to its full extent and walked into the room. It seemed untended. There was a flurry of papers on the floor next to the desk. I closed the door. My eyes wandered over the floor and it didn't take them long to find what they were looking for.

"Sherlock!" I ran to his side. He was lying unconscious on the floor next to his desk, still fully dressed. Sherlock wasn't one to sleep and he certainly wasn't one to lie on the floor. I knelt down beside him and tried to shake him awake, but it was no use.

I felt his forehead. He was burning hot. I felt for his pulse and it was racing. He was breathing heavily, but it was obvious he was terribly sick. I shook my head at his pride.

I ran to the bathroom and wet a washcloth with cool water then brought it back out to him. I put it across his forehead and went to the kitchen. I got an ice cube out of the freezer and went back to him. I swept it across his face and arms, trying to cool him down and maybe break the fever. It melted within moments.

"Oh, Sherlock," I sighed and pulled my mobile out of my pocket. There wasn't anything else I could do for him unless he woke up so I resolved to call the hospital. I dialed the number quickly and listened to the dial tone.

"Hello, Saint Bart's GeneralHospital, how can I help you?" a woman's voice answered.

I felt a light tug on my coat and dropped my phone in shock. Sherlock was gently tugging my sleeve, his eyes still closed.

"No… hospital," he rasped and I put a finger to his lips. He shouldn't be talking, but at least he was awake.

"Okay," I said quietly.

"Hello?" the phone chimed.

I picked it up again.

"Sorry, wrong number," I disconnected.

"Thank you," he whispered and I thought I was losing him to unconsciousness again.

"No, no, no," I said and put his head between my hands. "You've got to wake up. I need to break this fever," I said.

He nodded slowly and opened his eyes a bit.

I put my hand behind his head and helped him sit up. With a bit of swaying and a near collapse, I got him to the bedroom and onto the bed.

"Stay awake, I'm going to get you some Tylenol," I said.

"It's… in…" I put my hand to his lips again.

"I'll find it, don't speak," I said. This all felt rather strange: me saving him rather than him saving someone else for once. I had never seen him so weak.

I found it quickly in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and got a glass of water from the kitchen. I sat Sherlock up in bed and asked him to swallow the pills. He did, with some difficulty, but we both knew they would help.

I rummaged through the bathroom until I found a thermometer and came back to the bedroom. His eyes were closed but I knew he was still awake and could hear everything going on around him.

"I'm going to take you temperature," I said and he opened his mouth obediently. I stuck the thermometer under his tongue and it beeped within moments.

101.6. I hoped the Tylenol would kick in soon. I kept my mobile near me at all times, ready to call an ambulance with quick notice. After I had done all I could, I sat down on the end of the bed. I couldn't leave him alone and I had no intentions of doing so, but what was I to do otherwise? Did I need to call John? Let Mrs. Hudson know?

I waited a few minutes until the red had left his cheeks. I knew he was still awake, but just barely.

"Temperature," I whispered and put the thermometer in his mouth again.

99.5. His fever would be gone in an hour or so. I decided it was probably okay for him to sleep now so I told him to rest and within moments he was asleep. I wandered into the kitchen and put on the kettle. I knew he rarely ate, but that was going to change if he was around me.

I plopped down on the couch while I waited for the water to boil and examined my surroundings. The apartment was somewhat clean, probably John's doing, but there were papers scattered on the floor near the desk. I figured that's where Sherlock had fallen. I got up and crossed to the desk, examining it.

I picked the papers up off the floor, trying my best not to snoop and look at what they were. I placed them on the desk and looked at the floor. There was a small red stain where Sherlock had been laying. I scratched at it and realized it was still fairly new… and it was definitely blood.

I went to the bedroom and looked at Sherlock's face. There wasn't any sign of damage on his face, but there was a damp spot in his hair. I carefully parted his hair and found a thin line in this scalp. It had already scabbed up, but there was blood staining his hair. He must have collapsed from sickness and hit his head on the table. That would have been what put him out for good.

I took the washcloth from his face and re-soaked it in water, warm this time. I carefully wiped away what blood I could from the wound without waking him up. It was small and I doubted it would need any special care, but it made me worry for him that much more. Was he really so incapable of taking care of himself?

I went back to the living room and tried to get the stain out of the carpet. My guess was that he didn't want John to know any of this had happened. He only seemed to care about what people knew when it came to John. I got as much of it out as I could and wiped off the edge of the desk which had a bit of blood on it as well.

I rinsed the cloth off and hung it on the hook above the sink. _Now what?_

I went back to the living room and turned on the television, not sure what I was going to watch or if I even wanted to watch anything. I turned to the late news and watched the weather report before drifting off to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

the last update was pretty short so here's some more :)

thank

*bows*

It was mid morning when I woke up. I scrambled off the couch, hoping Sherlock hadn't awoken and found me sleeping on his couch. I went to the bedroom whose door was now half closed. I supposed my wish for him to have not seen me wasn't going to come true. Besides, I didn't hear the kettle, which I had left on, unawares.

I knocked softly on the door, nudging it open a bit. I heard a shuffling, but there was no answer.

"Sherlock, can I come in?" I asked, knowing he was awake.

I heard a sort of croak and then a cough and opened the door. Sherlock was sitting on his bed covered with only a white sheet. He had pushed his laptop to the end of the bed and looked like he had been trying to get up.

"You okay?" I asked.

He opened his mouth as if to speak then rolled his eyes and pointed to his throat.

"Cat got your tongue?" I asked and he rolled his eyes, obviously not happy with the situation. He had lost his voice entirely. I almost laughed.

"I put the kettle on," I said, "reckon you found that."

He nodded then raised his eyebrows as if to say _did you really think I was going to make tea?_

"Please Sherlock, it'll help your throat… although I kind of like this. It's nice to not be insulted ever minute that I'm in your presence."

He glared, using his face to the maximum to get across what he would have said otherwise.

"Are you feeling better otherwise? You look it," I said.

He nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He motioned for me to come over. He opened up a new document and typed out the words "Thank you."

"Well I couldn't just leave you there," I said. He turned the computer back to himself and typed something, then let me see it.

"But I could have managed my own self," it read. I scoffed.

"With a temperature over a hundred and a gash in your head, not to mention being unconscious," I said. "Sure, you would have been fine."

His hand flew to his head. I guess he hadn't discovered the injury yet.

"It's just a scratch," I said, regretting my sarcasm. "You hit your head when you passed out next to the desk. I found you unconscious on the floor."

He looked slightly less now than he did a moment ago. He probably doubted the fact that he would have survived. My guess was that his temperature would have risen and fried him from the inside out if I hadn't found him when I did, but I wasn't going to tell him that.

"Well…" I said, not exactly knowing what to do now. I guessed I should leave and give him the privacy he always wanted. "Do you think you can handle yourself now?"

He looked like he was about to nod his head and dismiss me when his mobile chimed. It was an incoming call. Sherlock looked at me and grabbed my arm, pointing at the phone.

"Please?" he mouthed and I picked it up off the table. It said it was from John.

"Hello?" I answered.

"Erm… Sherlock?"

"No, this is Addison," I said. "Sherlock's gone and lost his voice," I said.

"You're with him then? He's alright?"

"Yes, I took care of him. I suppose you've been trying to get a hold of him?"

"Well… yes, he wasn't answering my texts. I've called three times this morning. I was just checking in… what do you mean you took care of him?"

I explained our somewhat awkward meeting and how I had found Sherlock in his flat. John didn't seem pleased and at several points mumbled something about not being able to trust Sherlock to himself. Then came something I wasn't exactly expecting.

"Addison, I know it's a great deal to ask, but do you think you could take care of him while I'm gone?"

I thought about it for a moment. My initial reaction was an absolute no. Who in their right mind would want to stay with Sherlock the master of insults? _Well, John does_. I supposed Sherlock would need help if he expected to solve any cases without a voice… and it wasn't like I lived a million miles away.

"Of course," I said.

"You'll stay with him then?"

"Yes," I said and John sighed.

"Oh, thank you Addison, you don't know what it means to me. I'll see you in a week," he said.

"Be safe," I said and hung up.

Sherlock gave me the "well?" eyebrows.

"John wants me to keep watch over you while he's gone," I said matter-of-factly. I expected this to set him off and get him angry, but I was surprised. He looked at me carefully for a moment.

"Okay," he typed. Was it possible there were some emotions hidden behind his cold glares?

"If you want me to leave you alone, I can wait in the living room," I said and he shook his head.

"No, we're going out," he typed and closed the laptop. He started to stand up but I put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, what do you mean going out? You're sick, you need to stay inside for a bit," I said and he rolled his eyes. He gave me the "I'm-Sherlock-Holmes-I-can-do-whatever-I-want-to" look and I got out of his way.

He went to the closet, dropping the sheet to his waist then dragging it behind him, realizing perhaps halfway through the action of dropping it completely that he was in the presence of a lady. I rolled my eyes.

"I'll get my umbrella," I said then went up stairs to my flat and into it. I got my umbrella out of the coat closet then glimpsed my reflection in the mirror. My eyes widened. Had I really looked like that all morning? I supposed I shouldn't really care what I looked like in front of Sherlock, he certainly didn't care what he looked like in front of me… but there was a part of me, somewhere deep inside no doubt, that wanted him to approve of me and this definitely didn't have "Sherlock approves" written all over it.

I sprinted to the bathroom and ran a brush through my hair. I wiped my face down quickly and made myself presentable, then ran back to the door (which I had left wide open) and out. I locked the door as I left (as if it did any good at all on Baker Street) and back into 221B.

Sherlock emerged from the bedroom wearing his scarf and putting his coat on. He flipped the collar up when he was done and looked at me, seeming to say, "Are you ready?"

"Ready then?" I asked. He nodded and we left the flat. I stopped at the top of the stairs, assuming he had stopped to lock the door since his partner was away. Without notice, Sherlock ran into me, obviously not paying attention to where he was going.

I looked over my shoulder at him. He looked slightly embarrassed, but it was only for a moment. I looked at the door and realized he hadn't locked it at all.

That night we solved our first case. I was entirely ecstatic about the whole thing, having never actually been around police officers, let alone help them solve a case. Sherlock was convinced that he had done all the work, but I knew he would have been of no use without me. He had gotten frustrated enough with me trying to figure out what he was saying but I was sure he would have gone way past frustrated if someone else on the force had attempted to assist.

We returned to Baker Street around ten that night but I was far too exhilarated from the day's events to go to sleep. Sherlock unlocked his apartment and I followed him in without realizing what I was doing. He turned around and blocked the way, looking at me like "what do you think you're doing?"

"Looking after you, like John asked," I said and he squinted. He turned around and strode to the desk where he opened up his laptop and immediately started working away. I went to the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove. I rummaged around the cupboards until I found some good, old fashioned, herbal tea.

It didn't take long for the kettle to begin whistling and I took it off the stove. I got out a mug and poured the steaming water into it. I pressed the tea bag down into it and waited a bit. I wondered if Sherlock would want any honey.

"Would you like any honey?" I asked and went to the doorway to see his response. I knew he heard me but he ignored me. I walked out to where he was sitting and went on the opposite side of the desk. I bent down so that my eyes were staring at him across the top of the laptop. "Honey?"

He squinted up at me and blinked twice, not giving any hints away.

"I take that to mean yes," I said and turned away. He grabbed my arm and shook his head. "Thank you," I said and went back to the kitchen. I sighed quietly once I got there. Sherlock could be such a pain in the butt. I wondered what it was like in his brain but I soon figured it probably wasn't any fun.

I took the tea bag out of the cup and brought it out to him. I set it down on the desk next to him, hoping he would drink it without a fuss. He ignored it for a moment, maybe hoping I would leave, but I didn't.

He pulled himself out of the computer trance he had been locked in and picked up the cup. He mouthed the words "Thank you John," to me and went to take a drink, then realized that I wasn't at all John.

"Not John," I said.

He gave me the "makes no difference" look and continued to take a sip. After a few moments, he was taking longer drinks and I could tell he had come to peace with the tea. I decided there was no reason for me to stay any longer. He was obviously content at the computer and I had nothing else to do.

"I'm going upstairs now," I said and waited for a nod. He ignored me. "Holler if you need me," I said and I saw a brief scowl cross his face. I had come to the quick conclusion earlier that day that if there was anything that frustrated Sherlock more than stupid people, it was not being able to speak.

I went up to my flat and tucked myself in, hoping that Sherlock would change his attitude somewhere in between then and the morning.

It didn't.

I woke up to a text informing me he had a new case. It was three in the morning when I got that text and that made me into a not so happy camper. I reluctantly got out of bed and had a moment of silence for John, the poor man. He had to deal with this everyday. I wasn't sure if Sherlock would still be alive if I was in John's position.

We headed to the scene of the crime about half an hour and several angry glares later. It wouldn't have taken as long if Sherlock would have just listened to me and taken his tea when I asked him to in the first place.

The scene was much more gruesome than anything I had ever seen in a movie or on television. There were five dead bodies all laying facedown in the mud outside the local pool house next to each other. They were all girls, three with blonde hair and two with green. Lestrade told us that they knew for a fact that four of them were just copies. He was only interested in finding the real one.

Copies. They were all wearing the same exact clothes, jewelry, everything was the exact same on each of the girls except the faces… but those of course had been cut off, so they would be of no use. Sherlock took a quick look at the bodies, but his face seemed to look more concentrated then I had imagined it would. I figured it was only because he was sick.

"You got anything, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked after about ten minutes of him examining the bodies. He nodded and wrote what he had found on a piece of paper.

Sherlock had read in the paper the previous day that the daughter of the head of the Bank of England had disappeared without a trace. He knew one of them was her simply by the color of her clothes: blue. He wrote nothing else of the color of her clothes on the paper. I supposed he assumed it was obvious. Sherlock wrote about twenty more things on the paper that I had no idea where he came up with.

He had ruled out the two end blondes because their purity rings were obviously new since there were no white marks around their fingers that came with the frequent wear of rings. He ruled out one of the green haired girls because of the double piercing in her ear and decided that it had to be one of the girls left: either green hair or blonde. Sherlock suggested we try and follow each girl's tail.

"Brilliant," I said under my breath. Sherlock looked at me for a moment, and then did a double take. I had never told him how amazing he was, but I was sure my countenance told him. "But," I continued and he rolled his eyes. "She doesn't dye her hair, does she?" I stated. Sherlock gave me the "impress me" eyebrows and I continued, every face in the squad looking at me. "So you don't have to follow both trails. The real one is her," I said, pointing to the blonde. I would have thought Sherlock would have figured this one out on his own but I honestly thought he was a bit off his game from being sick.

"How do you know?" Lestrade asked.

_If Sherlock had said that, you wouldn't be questioning him,_ I thought. "They were all drowned," I said, pointing to their pruned fingers, "probably in that pool over there," I pointed to a building across the street and Sherlock looked at me as if it was obvious. Lestrade immediately sent a couple of men over there. "And her hair is green which suggests that she had to bleach her hair to get it to be blonde. The reaction between the bleach and chlorine is what makes the hair green," I concluded rather slowly.

There was a pause in the crowd. "Sherlock?" Lestrade said, turning to him.

He looked bored, but he cast a quick glance at me that made me think maybe he was a little bit surprised. He yawned and nodded, confirming what I had said.

"Right then boys," Lestrade said, "that's her. Sherlock, Addison," he said, obviously dismissing us. He could handle the case from there.

That night the case was on the news along with the follow up. They had found the killer a little less than an hour before the evening news aired. Sherlock watched (a bit smugly) then turned back to his laptop and continued whatever he was doing.

Sherlock drank his tea without a problem that night.


	5. Chapter 5

Let me just apologize for not updating forever; it's right before school starts so I've been finishing my procrastinated summer assignments and this last week I was doing GISHWHES so I've been kinda busy. Anywho, I haven't edited this within an inch of its life as I normally like to, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes I didn't pick up.

thank

*bows*

The next morning I found it harder to wake up to Sherlock's text. This time it said straight up, "Make me tea, SH." I wasn't sure how Sherlock was doing with this schedule, but he seemed fine when I went down.

Sherlock sat on the couch and watched a cooking show while I went to the kitchen and made him tea, just the way I always did. When I came out, he looked a little bit triumphant.

"Morning," he rasped and I smiled. _He can talk again!_ I thought happily. Then my face fell. _He can talk again._

"So you can talk again?" I asked, not entirely thrilled by the idea.

He held up his fingers a small bit, referring back to his made up sign language. Okay, he couldn't speak that well. That was slightly comforting. He suddenly turned back to the television. I looked as well.

There was a breaking news report coming on: something about a mass execution in the factory district of London. It was said to have happened in the slaughterhouse in construction most prevalently. I could only picture hundreds of dead bodies with slit throats before I swooned a bit. I looked back at the television.

It was said that the cause of death was unknown although symptoms included coughing to the point of internal bleeding and as far as they knew, only twenty three people had died as of then. The area had been evacuated and the air tested but there was no contamination to be found.

Sherlock looked at me, then back to the television, then back to me.

"Fun," he rasped then stood up. His sense of fun was not at all what I would call fun. He emptied what was left in his cup and returned it to the kitchen. I went upstairs and fetched my coat. I figured this would be trickier than our other cases, but then again, Sherlock was feeling much better today and I wondered if it was at all a mystery to him.

We met up next to the stairs and he turned his coat collar up. The ride there was silent, despite Sherlock's voice coming back. I took for granted that he was saving it for the case so that it was easier to communicate.

We stepped out of the cab simultaneously. The air smelled putrid, and I gagged as soon as I got out. I looked at Sherlock who also was crinkling his nose in disgust. The cab pulled away and he motioned for me to follow him into the construction zone. Lestrade and his men were already around the scene and there were ambulances there.

"How many?" Sherlock croaked to Lestrade.

"How many what?" Lestrade asked. He was such a smart man… when he wanted to be. Right now he looked a bit in shock.

"Deaths," I finished for Sherlock.

"Twenty-nine in all," he answered. "Four have dropped in the last ten minutes," he said, then gestured to one of the stretchers. "That one's mine," he said, his hands trembling a bit.

"And the others?" I asked. Sherlock looked at me as though I had taken the question out of his mouth but the astonished look soon turned to contempt.

"Witnesses."

The killer was killing off the witnesses… smart move. How was he doing it? There was nothing in the air that we knew of… but that smell… was that 'nothing'?

I coughed a bit, my lungs trying desperately to get the smell out of my body.

Lestrade looked at me, worriedly, then handed me his water bottle. "Take a drink: it helps," he said and I took it gladly. I took a long swallow. He was right; it did help. I handed the bottle back to him and looked at Sherlock. He probably had more intelligent thoughts than I did.

"Bodies," he said.

Lestrade seemed not to hear.

"Greg, Sherlock wants to examine one of the bodies," I said and Lestrade looked at me.

"Course, they just brought a few to St. Bart's."

With that, Sherlock hailed a cab and we drove back into town to the hospital. It was more than busy at the moment; people from all around town were scared by the uproar in the factory district and had come in to be inspected, perhaps more disappointed to find out that they were fine than to find out they were affected.

Sherlock and I went directly to the morgue where Molly was all alone, examining one of the bodies herself.

Sherlock nodded at her as he walked in the door, then took off his coat and scarf and set them on a nearby chair.

"Hello Sherlock," she said shakily and stepped away from the body. "I guess you want to look at him?" she asked and Sherlock nodded. This told me he was intent on staying for a while, so I too took off my coat and put it on top of his. He stared for a moment at placement of my coat on top of his then let it go and approached a body. I followed him over; maybe I could be of some help.

Molly looked up at me. I had never met her but John talked enough about how she had a crush on Sherlock that I could picture her. She looked almost exactly as I had imagined.

"Who's this, Sherlock?" she asked him nervously. He glanced at her then looked at me.

"I'm Addison Lane, I live just above Sherlock and John," I said and held out my hand. She looked at it for a moment and then pretended she hadn't noticed, quite unsuccessfully. I thought I saw Sherlock grin.

Not long after I had started to look at the body, I began to feel a bit nauseous and turned away. Perhaps Sherlock could handle this one on his own. I pulled a stool out from under the counter and laid my head down on the counter. It didn't take me long to realize that we were going to be here a lot longer than a while.

I closed my eyes for what seemed like a brief second. When I opened them, Sherlock had switched sides of the examination table he had been at and Molly was gone from the room. I glanced at the clock. It had been almost an hour since I closed my eyes.

Sherlock had a small spatula in his hand and he was using it to scrape a small powder off of the man's arm.

"This just appeared," he whispered and put the powder in a Petri dish. He carried it to a microscope and I followed him there. He was silent as he put a small bit onto a slide and then under the lens of the microscope.

My throat felt inexplicably dry and I coughed. I took a deep breath then coughed again.

Sherlock looked at me like I was being a huge distraction.

"Sorr-" I coughed again, this one more violent. Within seconds I fell into a coughing fit and looked at Sherlock who looked a bit panicked. He jumped off his stool, but I held my hand up.

"I'm fine," I said between fits of coughing. I covered my mouth and coughed harshly into my hand. There was something wet on my hand.

I tasted something highly metallic in my mouth and brought my hand away from my mouth, my coughing having ceased for a moment. There was blood on it.

"Sherlock," I said and coughed again. Blood suddenly rushed up my throat and I spat it out, choking and trying to breathe. Every breath I tried to take choked me and I spewed blood over myself and the floor of the lab. I panicked and my knees locked. I fell forward and Sherlock caught me. I was now unaware of any of my surroundings. I couldn't breathe. I coughed again and again, not being able to get any breaths into my body.

"Breathe, breathe," Sherlock whispered and I tried to suck in a slow breath but it caught in my throat and reduced me to coughing again. I put my head down, hoping to get out as much blood from my mouth as I could. I needed to breathe.

"Stay calm," he whispered, but I was far past that. There was blood everywhere. I felt faint and went completely lank. Sherlock put an arm around my back and one under my legs and lifted me up with ease. I continued coughing, not being able to stop myself. Blood was all over my face and started into my eyes. I closed my eyes, but it didn't help. The blood was in my eyes. It was coming from everywhere. I was dying. I lost consciousness.

Someone was saying my name. I didn't care to answer. I was dying. There was blood everywhere. Even if I wanted to answer, I wouldn't be able to. I was coughing up blood faster than Sherlock could make deductions.

Wasn't I?

No, I was breathing. I wasn't coughing. Someone was saying my name and it seemed to matter a bit more now. Someone was saying my name… for what?

_For confirmation,_ I thought.

I dared myself to open my eyes and after a moment or two, I did so successfully.

"Addison." Just a whisper.

It was very bright in the room I was in. it seemed as though someone had felt it necessary to turn on every light possible. I blinked tears out of my eyes. Were they tears? I felt quickly under my eyes and held my finger close in front of my face. Y_es, just tears_.

"Addison, look at me."

I obeyed. An unfamiliar face looked down at me from my left.

"Who are you?"

"Sh, sh," she hushed me gently. "Tell me about Sherlock," she said.

"Who are you?" I repeated. Even in my stupor I was smart enough not to answer a stranger when he asked about Sherlock.

"Never mind my name, I'm more interested in Sherlock," she said.

My vision became clearer and I could see that I was in a hospital room. I was still wearing my own clothes and they were caked in blood. My hands were equally as bloody and I wondered if my face looked the same. There was an IV in my left arm.

"Tell me about Sherlock," she said again, more forcefully this time.

"Who's asking?" I sat up and looked more closely at the woman. She was dressed in proper attire to be a nurse, but I had a sneaking suspicion that she wasn't.

"I won't ask again," she said. "Tell me about Mr. Holmes."

"No," I said, screwing up my eyebrows.

"Alright then," she said and "Try number two," she whispered gently and smiled manically.

_This isn't her second try; she's asked about Sherlock more than once…_ it took me another moment to realize she wasn't referring to Sherlock. She held up a needle and flicked it with her index finger. The wheels in my head began to turn a little faster. She lowered the needle toward my hand and stuck it in the small tube leading to my arm, using my daze to her advantage.

Without thinking twice, I pulled the IV out of my arm and rolled off of the side of the bed. I landed on my side on the floor and scrambled to a standing position quickly. My arm throbbed and my I swayed a bit, the blood rushing to my head. I bolted for the door, seeing no other option. I swung it open and collided mid-hallway with Sherlock who also was still wearing his blood drenched clothes.

"She's trying to kill me," I said quickly and he pushed me against the far wall and pulled a gun out of the back of his slacks. He aimed it at the door which had since closed again. He waited a moment, then raised his eyebrow at me and opened the door. The room was empty, but the window was open.

Sherlock didn't hesitate a moment and leaped out the window. I almost screamed, but then I realized that we were on the ground level. I stood in the middle of the room for a moment. Go or stay?

Go. Certainly I couldn't leave him to chase the woman by himself. I jumped out the window after him. He was not yet ten yards away, the woman about ten yards farther than him. I sprinted after him as quickly as I could. The woman began to cross the street and looked behind her to see us coming after her.

I saw what happened before it did and I had no doubt Sherlock did too.

In the second she looked away, a large bus came around the bend and didn't go through the trouble of stopping.

Sherlock stopped where he was and spun around, his hands over his head. It was obvious that he regretted not being able to stop the accident, but there was no one that could have. He would have to get his information some other way.

There was a horrible screech and the bus came to a halt. The driver got off and ran to the front of the bus. I didn't look at the body. Sherlock looked at me hopelessly.

I sighed.

"You couldn't have stopped it," I said and he scratched at his head angrily.

"Yes, I could have," he said and pursed his lips. Either Sherlock was his own personal hero or his own personal villain but no matter what had happened, he was incapable of blaming or giving credit to anyone but himself.

He nodded his head in the general direction of the accident that had just occurred and I followed him to the scene. We sprinted over, hoping that the woman was still alive. We broke through the crowd by my yelling of "police!" at anyone that tried to stop us. Sherlock knelt at the woman's side. Her eyes were open and she was looking around at the crowd, but there was blood pouring from a gash in her forehead and she seemed to be delirious.

"Who do you work for?" Sherlock asked.

She looked at him, confusedly.

"Who do you work for?" he asked, more loudly this time.

She didn't seem to understand what he was saying, but she knew all the same. The corner of her mouth turned up a bit into a crooked smile and she closed her eyes. Sherlock felt for a pulse but it was obvious that there wasn't any.

We looked at the dead woman's body lying in the street for several moments before a group of people came running out of the hospital. They asked people to clear the scene and then loaded the woman onto a gurney and wheeled her inside.

Sherlock and I made our way back to the sidewalk and I realized he still had his pistol out. I watched his hand tense up then relax as he squeezed the gun, no doubt from anger and frustration. He had such a quick temper.

He looked at me suddenly and brandished the pistol at me. I stepped back a bit and held my hands up. "You get me into all sorts of trouble."

So I was wrong: he either blamed himself or me.

"Well, let me apologize for being such a hugely annoying distraction," I huffed.

He looked at me like I was crazy. "That was a compliment," he rasped.

"Of course it was," I muttered to myself. I couldn't seem to figure anything he had to say successfully. Sherlock was so strange.

There was an awkward pause between us as we walked back to the hospital. He looked forward, ignoring the strange stares we got from people, Sherlock and I still having been covered in blood.

He steered me in through the hospital doors and several nurses around us came to our assistance at once.

"Sir, ma'am, are you okay?" they asked, over and over.

"Yes, we're fine, I'm just here to check her out of care," Sherlock explained and led me toward the front desk. The swarm of people around us was incredibly overwhelming and I grabbed onto Sherlock's wrist. He glanced at the contact momentarily then left it how it was.

I tried to tell the doctors and nurses that we were fine, but they didn't believe me, not that I blamed them. If someone was as covered in blood as we were, I don't think I would leave them alone very easily either. After what seemed like miles of people, we arrived at the front desk and Sherlock pulled me up along side him.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Yes, we're fine. I need you to release a patient from care," he said. "Addison Lane. She was checked in a few hours ago," he said and the woman looked down her list of patients.

"I'm sorry, sir, I can't release Ms. Lane from care. She hasn't recovered completely. She can't come out until tomorrow morning at the earliest."

"I'm fine," I said and the woman looked at me, perplexed.

It didn't take long for a few nearby nurses to find me a recovery room and change me into a hospital smock. Sherlock protested almost as much as I did, but the people couldn't be convinced otherwise.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Lane, but we need to keep you at least overnight to monitor your condition."

It wasn't until ten minutes later, after they had hooked me up with a new IV (this time in my right hand), that I was left alone in my room. Sherlock entered from the hallway having been forced to wait outside until they were done changing me and examining me.

He entered quietly and sat down in the chair beside my bed. He closed his eyes and pressed his hands together as he usually did when he was thinking. I decided (against my want to know why I was alive) it was best if I kept quiet while he was like this. Sherlock didn't stay like that for long. He opened his eyes and looked at me. I at first expected some great deduction he had made but he didn't have that look in his eyes.

"Why aren't you speaking?" he asked.

"Erm… did you want me to?"

"Not really, but I can't tell you to shut up if you're not saying anything."

"Sorry?"

There was silence in the room again. It didn't last as long this time but it was much more uncomfortable than the last one had been.

"Do you want me to stay?" he asked. The question came out rushed and awkward, but it was genuine.

"Only if you think I can help you in some way," I said. I didn't want him to stay when there was still a case to be solved and a murderer to catch.

"Actually, you can. Ask me something, anything," he commanded.

"Why am I still alive? What was wrong with me in the first place?"

"It was in the water. The water Lestrade gave you must have been contaminated. I assume it was from the slaughterhouse. The white dust you saw me scrape into the Petri dish was what was left over from the water that had splashed onto the man and evaporated. I figure once you get out of here, we can go back and test the water to be sure."

"So that's what made me… sick?" I said, not sure the right word for what had happened to me.

"Yes, but I found the antidote easy enough before you could die," he said candidly. "You should be fine now or at least once the contaminated water is excreted from your body," he said then paused. "The person would have to have had access to the plumbing of the building."

"But the building isn't complete," I said, "so it would have to be one of the construction workers…. So all we have to do really is find out who was working on plumbing that's still alive. I'm sure once we have a few chosen out, you'll be able to pick out the suspect."

"Well, I am too, but the construction manager died just a few hours ago while you were out," he said.

"And that's going to stop the great Sherlock Holmes from snooping around his desk?"

"Well, no, but I don't want to upset the local populace."

I thought for a moment. "You mean you don't want to upset John," I concluded.

"He's part of the local populace, unless I'm mistaken."

"John isn't here," I said.

"No, but I still care about the standards he holds," he said.

"But only when he's not around," I said. Even Sherlock had to admit that what he was saying didn't make much sense.

He paused, choosing his words before he spoke again. "And I also care about the standards you hold. From observing you, I daresay you wouldn't be the type to just go snooping around a recently perished man's office."

I was slightly shocked by his answer and didn't have anything to say back to him. It was hard to believe that this man actually cared about anything. He seemed to be so hardened by the things he had seen, it seemed like it would be hard to care anymore.

"Well, thank you for your concern, but I think that if it's for the sake of the people... well, we wouldn't want anybody else dying," I said.

"Regardless, anyone could have passed through the site. I recommend we go straight there."

"Fine," I said and Sherlock stood up.

"I'll be off then… if you don't want me to stay," he said.

"Only if you go straight home and rest," I said.

Sherlock went to the door and opened it, then turned back. "Yes, mother," he said and winked.


End file.
